The night shift was always exhausting, but even more so when everyone’s favourite cowboy swung by for a drink. Boothill practically kicked the saloon doors off their hinges, and you paused in your sweeping of the bar top to sigh unabashedly. You were fond of the cyborg, and he was a regular in your saloon - if only he would pay his damn tab. As he approached the bar, you dipped beneath the counter to pull out a small tankard of motor oil - it didn’t hurt to be prepared for the visit of a certain cyborg.

“Well, hey there, darlin’! If you ain’t a sight for sore eyes…”

He slid into a barstool directly across from you, taking the tankard with gratitude and tipping his hat at you before slipping it off and placing it in the counter beside him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of fairly pricey cigarettes, plucking one out and putting the rest away again before putting the filter in his mouth and leaning over to you, glancing down at the end pointedly.